


Earth & Heaven

by bibliolatry



Series: Let's Write Sherlock Challenges [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Boys In Love, Idiots in Love, M/M, POV Alternating, Tumblr: letswritesherlock, challenge 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-24
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-30 09:09:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1016769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bibliolatry/pseuds/bibliolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3</p><p>Songfic! Write a story inspired by music</p><p>Song choice ~ I Won't Say (I'm In Love) - Megara from Disney's Hercules</p><p>POV alternates between Sherlock and John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. S1 E1 SiP

**Author's Note:**

> Scene help from Ariana DeVere. 
> 
> http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html

John Watson wakes with a silent scream on his lips. His body quakes with repressed fear, a sheen of sweat covering his forehead and upper lip. The dream wasn’t much different from any other since he was invalided back to London from Afghanistan. The sound of Murray screaming his name as gunfire and explosions nearly deafen him. It takes a moment for his surroundings to register in his mind. He’s in his bedsit, a long way from the way; he’s safe. He throws his head back against his pillow, willing his breathing to regulate, his heart to stop pounding in his ears. Eventually he gives up; allows the tears to flow. Murray can never be replaced.

₪ ₪ ₪

John limps along the pavement, willing his mind to focus on anything other than Murray laying under him, Murray’s blood pooling out around him, Murray taking his last breath just as a sharp pain pierces his shoulder and the world turns black. It takes a moment for him to register someone calling his name. He turns back, a curious frown marring his features for a moment before he sets his sights on a slightly overweight man standing from a bench he hadn’t realized he’d just passed. He sifts through his memories, trying to put a name to the face in front of him.

“Stamford. Mike Stamford. We were at Bart’s together,” the man says, holding his hand out for a shake.

John moves back towards him, “Yes, sorry, yes, Mike.” He shakes Mike’s hand, “Hello, hi.”

Mike grins, gesturing to himself, “Yes, I know. I got fat!”

John fights the grimace and tries to make himself sound convincing when he replies, “No.”

Mike glances around a bit, “I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at. What happened?”

John’s reply is awkward. “I got shot.”

They stand for a moment in an awkward silence. A bit later, they both sit on the bench Mike had abandoned; each with a take-away cup of coffee in their hands. John takes a sip, ignoring Mike’s worried look, before turning to his old friend.

“Are you still at Bart’s, then?” he asks.

Mike nods, “Teaching now. Bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them.” This prompts a brief chuckle from both men. “What about you?” Mike asks. “Just staying in town ‘till you get yourself sorted?”

John gives a light shrug, “I can’t afford London on an Army pension.”

Mike smiles a bit, “Ah, and you couldn’t bear to be anywhere else. That’s not the John Watson I know.”

John shifts, uncomfortable, “Yeah, I’m not the John Watson…” he breaks off. 

There’s another moment of awkward silence between the two and John switches his cup from his left hand to his right, clenching and unclenching his now free hand, before Mike breaks it. “Couldn’t Harry help?”

John huffs, “Yeah, like that’s going to happen.” His tone is sarcastic, but neither make note on it.

Mike shrugs, taking another sip before replying. “I don’t know - get a flatshare or something?”

John gives Mike an incredulous look. “Come on - who’d want me for a flatmate?” Mike chuckles, prompting a confused look from John. “What?”

Mike looks up from his lap, eyes set on John in a thoughtful manner. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John tilts his head a bit, “Who was the first?”

₪ ₪ ₪

Sherlock stands at the far end of the lab, a pipette in hand. He squeezes a few drops of liquid onto a petri dish. Mike knocks on the door and brings a man in with him. Sherlock casts a quick glance at them before turning back to his work. He can hear their conversation, as though it’s a soft song playing in the background of his mind.

“Well, bit different from my day,” the man says as he limps into the room, eyes scanning the equipment.

Mike lets out a small chuckle, “You’ve no idea.”

Sherlock takes a seat, casts a quick glance up again at the two men. “Mike, can I borrow you’re phone? There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with the landline?” 

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock’s voice makes it clear that should be obvious.

“Sorry, it’s in my coat.”

The man with the can fishes in his pocket, pulls out his phone. “Er, here. Use mine.”

Sherlock looks up at Mike for a moment before he stands and walks towards the man. Mike makes the introduction. “It’s an old friend of mine, John Watson.”

Sherlock takes the phone from John’s hand, turning partially away and starting to type. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks.

He catches John’s frown out of the corner of one eye and Mike’s quirk of lips out of the corner of the other. John queries, “Sorry?”

“Which was it?” Sherlock asks. “Afghanistan or Iraq?” He glances at John before turning back to the text.

“Afghanistan. Sorry, how did you know…?”

Molly’s entrance cuts John off and Sherlock glances up at her. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He shuts John’s phone and hands it back before taking the cup Molly offers him. He looks closely at her, noting the paleness of her lips. “What happened to the lipstick?”

Molly gives him an awkward smile. “Wasn’t working for me.”

“Really?” he asks, “I thought it was a big improvement, you’re mouths to small now.” He turns and walks back to his station, grimacing at the taste of the coffee.

Molly is silent for a moment before a soft ‘okay’ escapes her. She turns and heads back to the door.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asks. He catches John looking to Molly and then to Mike, who still has a smug smile on his lips, before the realization sets in. 

“Sorry, what?” John asks.

Sherlock’s fingers tap away at his laptop as he talks. “I play the violin when I’m thinking. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end.” He looks over at John. “Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” He tosses John an obviously false smile, watches as he glances at Mike.

“Oh, you ... you told him about me?” John asks Mike.

“Not a word,” Mike replies with a slight shake of his head.

John turns back to Sherlock. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

Sherlock picks up his greatcoat as he answers. “I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult a leap.”

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John asks as Sherlock wraps his scarf around his neck before picking up his mobile and checking it.

“Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it,” Sherlock says as he walks towards John. “We’ll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o’clock. Sorry - gotta dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.” He slips his phone into his pocket and walks past John towards the door.

John’s eyes follow him, “That’s it?”

Sherlock pauses, turns back to John. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met,” John notes, “and we’re going to look at a flat together?”

“Problem?” Sherlock quirks a brow.

John smiles disbelievingly, turns to Mike for help, gets none and turns back to Sherlock. “We don’t know a thing about each other; I don’t know where we’re meeting; I don’t even know your name.”

Sherlock’s eyes roam John more a moment before he speaks. “I know you’re an Army doctor and you’ve been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him – possibly because he’s an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid.” He pauses, John glances at his leg. Sherlock continues, smugness evident in his voice, “that’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He continues towards the door, opens it, leans back and looks at John. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one Baker Street.” He clicks his tongue and tosses John a quick wink before exiting.

In the hall, Sherlock berates himself for winking at John. He learned after Victor Trevor not to let anyone in his life, to cut off from his emotions. Should have listened to Mycroft from the beginning, really, but he’d thought Victor would be different, wouldn’t hurt him. A handsome man is no reason to let those walls fall again. He’ll have to keep his guard up with this one.

Back in the lab, John casts Mike a disbelieving look. Mike let’s out a small chuckle. “Yeah, he’s always like that.”

₪ ₪ ₪

John returns to his bedsit. He pulls out his mobile phone as he sits on his bed. He looks at it a moment before flicking through the menu to find the messages sent.

‘If brother has green ladder  
Arrest brother  
SH’

John stares at the message for a moment, trying to figure out what it means. He stands from the bed and moves towards the table where his laptop is set. A does a quick ’Quest’ search for Sherlock Holmes. In the back of his mind, he berates himself for being thrown off by a pretty face. He pushes the image of Murray, bleeding out as he frantically tries to fix what’s wrong, out of his head.

₪ ₪ ₪

John is just making his way to the door of 221 Baker street as a black cab pulls up to the curb. He knocks on the door as Sherlock steps out from the cab, turns to pay the cabbie. “Hello,” he says to John. “Thank you,” to the cabbie.

John turns to Sherlock, “Ah, Mr. Holmes.”

They shake hands as Sherlock replies. “Sherlock, please.”

John glances up and down the street. “Well, this is a prime spot. Must be expensive.”

“Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, she’s giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out,” Sherlock replies.

John turns back to Sherlock, “Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?”

“Oh, no,” Sherlock gives a self-satisfied smile, “I ensured it.”

Mrs. Hudson opens the front door, pulls Sherlock into a hug. “Sherlock, hello.”

Sherlock steps back from the hug, turns to introduce John. “Mrs. Hudson, Doctor John Watson.”

“Hello,” Mrs. Hudson smiles.

“How do?” John replies as he steps up towards them.

Mrs. Hudson gestures for them to enter, “Come in.”

“Thank you,” John says.

“Shall we,” Sherlock gestures towards the entrance.

Mrs. Hudson steps to the side, “Yeah.”

They enter the building and climb the stairs, John taking a bit longer to hobble up to the flat. Sherlock opens the door to the living room, John follows him in. The room is in shambles, boxes and possessions scattered about. John glances around at everything, notes how much potential it has. Sherlock agrees, looking around the flat with a small, genuine smile.

“So I went ahead and moved in,” Sherlock says just as John says, “Soon as we get all this rubbish cleaned out.”

“Oh,” John breaths, a light flush coating his cheeks. “So this is all…”

“Well,” Sherlock flits about, moving things and trying to straighten up a bit, “obviously I can, um, straighten things up a bit.” He grabs some unopened envelopes and walks across the room to the fireplace. Using a penknife, he fixes the envelopes to the mantel.

John’s eyes have settled on the mantel, he unthinkingly lifts his cane to point at it, “that‘s a skull.”

“Friend of mine,” Sherlock replies. “When I say ‘friend’…”

Mrs. Hudson enters, picks up a cup and saucer as Sherlock removes his scarf and greatcoat. “What do you think, then, Doctor Watson? There’s another bedroom upstairs if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

“Of course we’ll be needing two bedrooms,” John hastily replies. He can’t think of sharing a room with someone who’s not Murray; can’t allow anyone else in. He resolutely ignores Sherlock’s questioning gaze.

“Oh, don’t worry; there’s all sorts round here,” Mrs. Hudson says. She drops her voice, whispers the next bit, “Mrs. Turner next door’s got married ones.” John ignores this information as Mrs. Hudson enters the kitchen. “Oh, Sherlock,” she exclaims, “the mess you’ve made.”

John moves across the sitting room, drops his body into one of the armchairs. Sherlock is still tidying the room. “I looked you up on the internet last night,” he says.

Sherlock turns and looks at him, “anything interesting?”

“Found your website,” John admits, “The Science of Deduction.”

Sherlock smiles proudly, clasps his hands behind his back, “what did you think?”

John throws him an incredulous look, “You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb.”

Sherlock looks hurt for a moment before pulling up his mask again. There’s no reason this man’s approval should mean anything to him. “Yes; and I can read your military career in your face and your leg, and your brother’s drinking habits in your mobile phone.”

“How?” John asks, and he sounds genuinely interested.

Sherlock smiles, turns to the window. Mrs. Hudson comes out of the kitchen, “What about these suicides then, Sherlock? I though that’d be right up your street. Three exactly the same.”

“Four,” Sherlock says, looking down at a police car that’s pulled up to the curb, lights flashing. Someone gets out of the car and makes their way towards the door of 221. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“A fourth?” Mrs. Hudson asks just before a man walks into the flat.

“Where?” Sherlock asks, looking towards the man.

“Brixton, Lauriston Gardens,” the man says.

“What’s new about this one?” Sherlock asks. “You wouldn’t have come to get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?” the man asks.

“Yeah.”

“This one did. Will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s Anderson.”

Sherlock grimaces. “Anderson won’t work with me.”

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” the man concedes. 

“I need an assistant,” Sherlock insists.

“Will you come?” he repeats.

“Not in a police car,” Sherlock notes. “I’ll be right behind.”

“Thank you,” the man says. He looks around at John and Mrs. Hudson for a moment before turning and hurrying back down the stairs.

As soon as he’s sure the man has reached the door, Sherlock leaps into the air, clenching his fists in triumph. “Brilliant! Yes!” he exclaims as he twirls about the room. “Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it’s Christmas.”

He pulls on his coat and scarf, grabbing a small pouch from the kitchen table as he moves about. “Mrs. Hudson, I’ll be late. Might need some food.”

“I’m your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper,” she reminds him,

“Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don’t wait up!” Sherlock disappears out the kitchen door as Mrs. Hudson turns back to John.

“Look at him, dashing about,” she says. “My husband was just the same.” John ignores the uncomfortable feeling that comes along with the implication that he’s in a relationship with anyone. It had been hard enough convincing Harry he’s fine on his own, that he doesn’t need anyone in that manner. “But you’re more the sitting-down type,” she continues, “I can tell.” Mrs. Hudson turns towards the door, “I’ll make you that cuppa. You rest your leg.”

John looses control of himself for a moment, all the feeling he suppresses on a constant basis coming to the forefront as he shouts, “Damn my leg.” He flinches at his own town, immediately apologetic. “Sorry, I’m so sorry. It’s just that sometimes this bloody thing…” he deflects from the real reason for his outburst.

“I understand, dear,” Mrs. Hudson assures. “I’ve got a hip.” She turns back towards the door.

“Cup of tea’d be lovely, thank you,” John says as she leaves the flat.

“Just this once,” she says at the top of the stairs. “I’m not your housekeeper.”

“Couple biscuits too, if you’ve got ‘em,” John calls out to her.

“Not your housekeeper.”

John sits there for a moment, his mind wandering back to Murray and then to Sherlock. So different from each other, both gorgeous in their own way. He shakes the thoughts from his mind; don’t get attached, don’t get hurt, he reminds himself. He picks up the newspaper and has just opened it when Sherlock rushes back into the flat.

He stops at the door as John looks up at him over the top of the paper. “You’re a doctor. In fact, you’re an Army doctor.”

“Yes,” John says as he gets to his feet and turns towards Sherlock.

“Any good?” Sherlock asks.

“Very good,” John is not vain, he’s honest.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then; violent deaths.”

“Mmm, yes.”

“Bit of trouble too, I bet.”

John’s voice is quieter as he replies. “Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much.”

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, God, yes,” John’s reply is more excited than he intends and he follows Sherlock from the flat.

₪ ₪ ₪

The case is more interesting that John had originally thought it would be. Aside from being left at the first scene, the drugs bust (really, Sherlock?) and the moment of irrational fear of loosing Sherlock when he’d only just met him, the whole thing is one large adrenaline rush; just what John needs in his life. Somewhere along the way, he lost his psychosomatic limp. He’ll have to remember to thank Sherlock for that. 

Sherlock. That’s something else that John wasn’t expecting. The man is a veritable hurricane. He’s everywhere at once, spot on with just about every deduction (though he hadn’t taken into consideration that Harry could be short for Harriet), and absolutely breathtaking when he’s at his best. It had been hell when Angelo had implied that they were there for a date. 

This could prove to be a problem. John cannot afford to loose himself to someone again. After Murray, after that much pain, it just isn’t worth it. He just can’t. 

₪ ₪ ₪

“Why have I got this blanket?” Sherlock asks as Lestrade walks up to him. “They keep putting this blanket on me.”

“Yeah, it’s for shock,” Lestrade replies.

“I’m not in shock,” Sherlock assures.

“Yeah,” Lestrade grins, “but some of the guys want to take photographs.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes at that. “So, the shooter. No sign?”

“Cleared off before we got ’ere. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but,“ Lestrade shrugs, “got nothing to go on.”

Sherlock looks at Lestrade pointedly, “Oh, I wouldn’t say that.”

Now Lestrade rolls his eyes, “Okay, gimme.”

Sherlock stands as he starts rattling off information, “The bullet they just dug out of the wall’s from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that’s a crack shot you’re looking for, but not just a marksman; a fighter. His hands couldn’t have shaken at all, so clearly he’s acclimatised to violence. He didn’t fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You’re looking for a man probably with a history of military service,” he looks around the area, eyes coming to a stop on John standing some distance off behind the police tape, “and nerves of steel…” he trails off as connections start being made in his mind.

John gives Sherlock an innocent look before turning his head away. Lestrade follows Sherlock’s gaze and Sherlock jerks his head back to Lestrade before the DI can ask any questions. “Actually, do you know what? Ignore me.”

“Sorry?” Lestrade asks, confused.

“Ignore all of that,” Sherlock says. “It’s just the, er, the shock talking,” he turns and starts walking towards John.

“Where are you going?” Lestrade calls after him.

“I just need to talk about the-the rent,” Sherlock calls back.

“But I’ve still got questions for you.”

Sherlock turns back to Lestrade, irritation evident on his face, in his stance. “Oh, what now? I’m in shock. Look, I’ve got a blanket,” he brandishes the sides of the blanket at Lestrade as though he’s proving some kind of point.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade tries.

“And!” Sherlock cuts him off, “I just caught you a serial killer… more or less.”

Lestrade looks at him thoughtfully for a moment. “Okay,” he relents. “We’ll bring you in tomorrow. Off you go.”

As Sherlock continues on his way to John, he considers the other mans actions. They’d only just met and John had killed for him. John is an average man; average looks, average personality. Nothing about him screams look at me. Maybe that’s what’s so extraordinary about him. He’s so average, but he’s so far above average as well.

“Stop! Stop, we can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene! Stop it!” John admonishes and Sherlock can’t help but smile.

It’s a bad thing, Sherlock thinks to himself. A distance must be kept. He can never allow anyone as close as Victor had gotten. Caring is not an advantage.


	2. S1E2 The Blind Banker

It wasn’t normal, John knew, to argue with a chip and pin machine; but what in his life, since meeting Sherlock Holmes, could be considered normal? In a final huff of irritation, he points at the machine, “Right, keep it. Keep that,” and leaves the store.

Back at Baker street, Sherlock is under attack from a heavily robed figure, his body completely shrouded in scarves. His curved sword cuts close, but Sherlock is able to duck out of the way. It’s a good fight, Sherlock thinks, definitely not boring. In the end, the would-be assassin is vanquished and by the time John arrives, Sherlock is sitting in his leather chair calmly reading a book. 

Without looking up from his book, Sherlock remarks, “You took your time.”

“Yeah,” John replies, “I didn’t get the shopping.”

Sherlock lowers the book a bit, looking at John over the top of it. “What? Why not?” his voice is indignant.

John’s reply is tetchy, “got in a row with the chip and pin machine.”

Sherlock lowers his book a bit more. “You,” he pauses, “you had a row with a machine?”

John replies with all the dignity he can muster, “sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse at it. Have you got cash?”

Sherlock bites back his amuse smile. It wouldn’t due to let John know how much he unwittingly affects the detective. He nods towards the kitchen, “take my card.”

John moves towards the kitchen but stops and turns back to Sherlock before he gets there. “You could always go yourself, you know. You’ve been sitting there all morning. You’ve not even moved since I left.”

Ah, John, if only you knew, Sherlock thinks.

“And what happened about that case you were offered - the Jaria Diamond,” John continues as he turns back to the table. 

“Not interested,” Sherlock replies, marking his place in the book. He notices the sword sticking out from under his chair in plain view. A quick placement of his foot and the sword is sliding out of sight. Wouldn’t due to worry John. “I sent them a message,” he says thinking back to the final blow he’d dealt his attacker. 

John’s found the card by now, but has also noticed a cut on the table. He rubs his thumb against it, hoping it’s just a smudge that can be removed. He let’s out ‘ugh, Holmes’ in an exasperated whisper. He turns back to Sherlock and tuts pointedly, ignoring the innocent look he gets in return. 

Sherlock can’t subdue a smirk as John leaves the room and trots back down the stairs.

Yes, life is definitely more interesting for the pair of them.

₪ ₪ ₪

John decides the moment he lays eyes on him that he doesn’t like Sebastian Wilkes. The man is an arrogant arse and no one should talk to Sherlock in such a way. John especially doesn’t like the way Sebastian wraps both hands around Sherlocks one when they shake; then he mentally shakes the jealous and slightly possessive thought away.

“Howdy, buddy. How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?” Sebastian says.

Sherlock glances at John and for a moment, he can see the barely concealed dislike in those icy-blue eyes. John’s practiced enough in schooling his features that he doesn’t let on his agreement.

“This is my friend, John Watson,” Sherlock emphasis the word ‘friend’ when he introduces them.

“Friend?” Sebastian asks as though he can’t believe Sherlock would ever have a friend. He turns to John, eyes curious.

“Colleague,” John corrects. They’re still getting to know each other properly, after all. Colleagues and flatmates, that’s what they are.

“Right,” Sebastian says, eyeing John.

When Sebastian glances at Sherlock, obviously thinking ‘didn’t think you had any friends’, John immediately regrets correcting him. John catches Sherlocks gaze dropping to Sebastians wristwatch. Collecting data.

“Well, grab a pew,” Sebastian says turning towards his desk. “D’you need anything? Coffee, water?”

When Sherlock shakes his head, John speaks up, “No.”

Sebastian glances back at them, “No?” He turns to his secretary then, “we’re all sorted here, thanks.”

As the secretary leaves, the men sit, Sebastian on his side of the desk and Sherlock and John side-by-side across from him. John’s fingers twitch subtly, the urge to grab Sherlock’s hand, to present a united front against this unlikable man, a rush through his system.

“So, you’re doing well,” Sherlock says. “You’ve been abroad a lot.”

“Well, some,” Sebastian concedes.

“Flying all the way round the world twice in a month?” Sherlock asks, though it’s really more of a statement. 

John frowns, confusion apparent, but Sebastian just laughs and points at Sherlock. “Right. You’re doing that thing.” He looks to John, “we were at uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock says quietly and John has to fight to hide the annoyed bristle as this man obviously enjoys making fun of him.

“He could look at you,” Sebastian continues, eyes still on John, “and tell you your whole life story.”

“Yes,” John says, “I’ve seen him do it.”

“Put the wind up everybody,” Sebastian tells John. “We hated him.”

Sherlock turns away, angling his head towards the floor and John once again feels the urge to grab his hand, to punch this man that’s obviously having some kind of negative effect on Sherlock.

“You’d come down to breakfast,” Sebastian remarks as though nothing’s the matter, “in the Formal Hall and this freak would know you’d been shagging the previous night.”

John bristles again at the name, aggravation seeping into his bones. Sherlock’s voice is quiet as he replies, “I simply observed.”

“Go on,” Sebastian taunts, “enlighten me. Two trips a month, flying all the way around the world - you’re quite right. How could you tell?” Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, but Sebastian cuts him off, voice smug, “you’re gonna tell me there was, um, a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan.”

John can’t help the brief smile. It is something Sherlock would notice.

“No, I…” Sherlock begins only to be cut off by Sebastian again.

“Maybe it was the mud on my shoes!”

Sherlock stares at him a moment before finally speaking. “I was just chatting with your secretary outside. She told me.”

John’s confused for a moment. It’s such an ordinary answer for such an extraordinary man. Sebastian lets out a bark of humorless laughter and the smile Sherlock returns to him has an equal lack of humor. Sebastian claps his hands together, his entire demeanor becoming more serious.

“I’m glad you could make it over. We’ve had a break-in.”

They’re making their way towards the exit when John finally speaks. “Two trips around the world this month. You didn’t ask his secretary; you said that just to irritate him.” Sherlock just smiles. “How did you know?”

“Did you see his watch?”

John thinks about how he’d caught Sherlock glancing at Sebastian’s watch. “His watch?” he asks.

“The time was right but the date was wrong. Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but he didn’t alter it,” Sherlock explains. He enjoys explaining his deductions to John; John appreciates his deductions, finds them ‘amazing’, ‘extraordinary’ even.

“Within a month?” John prompts. “How’d you get that part?”

“New Breitling,” Sherlock says, thinking back to the brand name on the watch: Breitling Chronometre Crosswind. “Only came out this February.”

“Okay,” John says, much more satisfied with this explanation. It’s much more like Sherlock. “So d’you think we should sniff around here for a bit longer?”

₪ ₪ ₪

Van Coon is dead when they arrive. It appears to be a suicide, but the brilliant man that Sherlock Holmes is points out all the details that clearly lead to it being a homicide. DI Lestrade isn’t working this case. DI Dimmock isn’t as agreeable as Lestrade. John wants to throttle the idiot for rebuffing Sherlock’s explanation.

Sebastian proves just as hard to convince that Van Coon had been murdered. John gets just a bit more annoyed when a text proves to be Sebastian’s Chairman. Apparently, Dimmock told the man it was suicide. Idiots.

“I thought bankers were all supposed to be heartless bastards,” John remarks as Sebastian walks away.

₪ ₪ ₪

John’s got an interview. Running around London with Sherlock is the most fun John‘s had in what seems like forever, but he needs the job, needs the extra income. It’s obvious Sarah is flirting with him, though she does try to keep it subtle. John’s not really interested, but she may be of some use in keeping his mind from wandering to his flatmate. He could use the distraction.

“Anything else you can do?” Sarah asks.

“I learned the clarinet at school,” John remarks, and even he’s not entirely sure why he brought that up.

“Oh?” Sarah asks with a light, flirty laugh. “Well, I look forward to it.”

Yes, Sarah will be a good distraction.

₪ ₪ ₪

John wonders if Sherlock realizes that he’s gone or just ignores the fact that he’s gone. Sherlock wonders why he’s so keen on talking to John that he talks to him when the man isn’t even there. 

“Yeah, I went to see about a job at that surgery,” John says absently, eyes roaming over the pictures Sherlock’s set up over the mantel.

“How was it?” Sherlock asks, his tone bored, though he is actually curious.

“It’s great,” John replies, “She’s great.” He has to hide the involuntary flinch.

“Who?” Sherlock’s looking at him now, he can feel it.

John turns to look at him. “The job.”

“She?” Sherlock asks, trying to hide the suspicious lilt to his voice.

John pauses before saying ‘it’. Sherlock decides that until there is proof of mutual attraction, his best bet is to get on with the case. He shows John the article he has open on the computer, title reading ‘Ghostly killer leaves a mystery for police’.

“Happened last night,” Sherlock says. “Journalist shot dead in his flat; doors locked, windows bolted from the inside – exactly the same as Van Coon.”

John straightens up and looks at Sherlock. “God, you think…”

“He’s killed another one.”

₪ ₪ ₪

The code is hard to crack. John’s surprised that Sherlock hasn’t solved it yet. 

“The world’s run on codes and ciphers, John. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment,” Sherlock says as they walk through Trafalgar Square.

“Yes, but…” John prompts and Sherlock continues.

“… but it’s all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It’s an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won’t unravel it.”

“Where are we headed?” John asks.

“I need to ask some advice.”

John nearly freezes at that. “What? Sorry?”

He can’t help but smile at the dark look Sherlock shoots him. “You heard me perfectly. I’m not saying it again.” 

It’s a concept that’s hard to grasp, Sherlock asking for help. “You need advice?”

“On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert.”

₪ ₪ ₪

“You’ve been a while,” Sherlock comments as John storms into the living room.

“Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don’t really like to be hurried, do they?” John remarks tersely. “Just formalities: fingerprints, charge sheet; and I’ve gotta be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday.”

It seems to John as if Sherlock isn’t listening, but really, he’s trying to figure out a way to Mycroft to have the charges dropped without having to owe the bastard anything in return. 

Ah, got it, he thinks just as John says, “You wanna tell your little pal he’s welcome to go and own up any time.” 

Time to move on with the case, then. “This symbol: I still can’t place it,” he declares as he slams the book he’d been staring blankly at closed. John starts to remove his jacket, but Sherlock stands and moves over to him, pulling his jacket back on before turning him towards the door and guiding him out. “No, I need you to go to the police station,” he ignores John’s indignant ‘oi’ and continues, “ask about the journalist.”

John lets out an exasperated sigh. “Oh, Jesus.”

Sherlock grabs his own coat and pulls it on before wrapping his scarf around his neck. “His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary or something that will tell us his movements.” They make it to the street. “I’m going to go and see Van Coons P.A. If we retrace their steps, somewhere they’ll coincide.”

₪ ₪ ₪

They literally bump into each other across the street from an oriental shop. Turns out both victims have been out of country recently and, upon their return, have visited the shop. John enjoys listening to Sherlock speculate, toss out ideas and make connections. He prefers it when he’s Sherlock’s sounding board. It makes him feel useful, needed, gives him purpose. He’ll never say that out loud, though. Never.

“You want lucky cat?” the shopkeeper asks and John has to fend of a sale attack.

“No, thanks. No,” he says, mentally cursing a silent and smirking Sherlock. The bastard.

“Ten pound! Ten pound,” the shopkeeper tries again.

“No.”

“I think your wife, she will like,” she presses and John shoots her an awkward smile.

“No, thank you,” in an attempt to escape the persistent shopkeeper, John inadvertently discovers a clue to the code. 

“Numbers written in an ancient Chinese dialect,” Sherlock says later after they’ve left the shop.

₪ ₪ ₪

Having Sherlock standing so close, their faces inches apart and telling him to close his eyes. He knew it was for the case, but that didn’t stop his pulse from pounding. He’d fought hard to keep his face from flushing, did everything he could to keep his growing feelings from showing. When Sherlock dropped his hands from John’s face to his shoulders and looked into his eyes so intensely, John’s breathing hitched and he was positive that he’d screwed everything up. Sherlock had to know now. There was only one thing to do.

John decides to ask Sarah out. Sarah provides the perfect opportunity.

“So, um, what were you doing to keep you up so late?” she asks as he’s getting ready to leave the surgery. 

John turns back to her. “Uh, I was, er, attending a sort of book event,” he says, thinking back to the many crates of books he and Sherlock had spent hours going over the night before.

“Oh. Oh, she likes books, does she, your ... your girlfriend?” she asks, looking down as though the answer didn’t matter to her.

“Mmm? No, it wasn’t a date,” he says, trying to figure out how to ask her.

“Good,” he response is too quick, she tries to cover, “I mean, um…”

“And I don’t have one for tonight,” John ventures. Sarah smiles.

₪ ₪ ₪

“I need to get some air. We’re going out tonight,” Sherlock says as John walks in after he finished getting ready for his date.

“Actually,” John says, looking over at Sherlock. “I’ve, er, got a date.”

Sherlock freezes for approximately one point seven three seconds before responding. “What?” he can’t believe it. John has a date. Is it that woman from the surgery?

“It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun,” John replies looking slightly amused.

“That’s what I was suggesting,” Sherlock says without thinking. It’s a struggle to keep the blush from creeping up past the collar of his shirt. 

“No it wasn’t,” John says. At least I don’t think it was, he thinks.

“Where are you taking her?” Sherlock’s entire body screams that he’s sulking.

John glances at him quickly, “Er, cinema.”

Stupid idea, Sherlock thinks. Out loud, he says, “Oh, dull, boring, predictable.” He pulls a paper from his trouser pocket as he walks towards John. He hides a smug smile as he hands it over. “Why don’t you try this?”

John looks at the paper, unable to hide the surprise and, if he were honest, hurt, at Sherlock offering to help him out with a date. 

“In London for one night only,” Sherlock goads.

John chuckles to hide his disappointment, then offers the paper back to Sherlock. “Thanks, but I don’t come to you for dating advice.”

₪ ₪ ₪

John should have known Sherlock had something else in mind when he’d told him about that circus. Leave it to Sherlock to figure out a way to get one or both of them in a bind. Poor Sarah, John couldn’t help but think. She didn’t ask for any of this.

“I ... I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” John says still trying to wrap his head around what it is that’s happening.

“Forgive me if I do not believe you,” she says as she begins to rummage through his pockets. She pulls out several items that would argue against John.

“I s’ppose there’s no use me trying to persuade you I was doing an impression,” John queries after she reminds him of declaring himself Sherlock Holmes outside Soo Lins flat. He hangs his head in defeat.

Back at Baker street, Sherlocks mind is racing, trying to figure out what’s become of John and his (he can’t even stop the sneer in his mind) date. “Tramway,” he breathes and he’s moving.

“Please. Please, listen to me,” John begs. “I’m not ... I’m not Sherlock Holmes. You have to believe me. I haven’t found whatever it is you’re looking for.”

Sherlock races across London in the back of a cab.

“I’m not Sherlock Holmes,” John’s becoming frantic. Sarah doesn’t deserve this. She’s never going to forgive him.

“I don’t believe you,” Shan tells him.

“You should, you know,” Sherlock has arrived.

In the end, Shan gets away. Sherlock does his best to soothe Sarah’s frayed nerves. 

“Don’t worry,” John tells her, looking up towards them wearily from where he’s catching his breath on the ground. “Next date won’t be like this.”

Sherlock has to bite his tongue.


	3. Part 3 - The Great Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goes along with The Great Game.

John enters two two one to the sound of gunfire. He rushes up the stairs and enters flat B with his heart pounding and fear in his eyes. That fear shifts to anger when he sees Sherlock with his Browning, shooting the wall.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

Sherlock sulks and says, “bored.”

John squints at him, his tone laced with disbelief as he asks, “what?”

“Bored,” Sherlock says louder. He stands from his chair, raises pistol while twisting his body to and fro and firing off two more shots. “Bored. Bored,” he shouts angrily.

John rushes forward before Sherlock can get off a third. He takes the pistol from Sherlock’s hand and slides out the clip. Sherlock throws himself down on the sofa.

“Don’t know what’s got into the criminal classes. Good job I’m not one of them,” he grumbles.

John locks the pistol away in a small safe on the dining room table and turns back to Sherlock. “So you take it out on the wall?”

Sherlock traces his fingers over the spray-painted smiley face. “Ah, the wall had it coming.” He turns sideways and drops himself dramatically across the sofa. 

John takes off his coat and hangs it on his hook. “What about that Russian case?”

Sherlock shoves his feet into the arm of the sofa, pushing himself slightly more upright before he starts to knead the arm of the sofa with his toes. “Belarus. Open and shut domestic murder. Not worth my time.”

“Ah, shame,” John’s tone is heavily laden with sarcasm. He walks into his kitchen and throws his arms up in despair at the mess that greets him. When he turns and opens the fridge, he shuts it just as quickly. He slumps against the door for a moment, his head hung as he tries to calm his quickened pulse. He opens the door and looks into the fridge one more time, hoping he’d only imagined it. He stares for a few moments before closing the door again. “It’s a head,” he turns and calls to Sherlock. “A severed head.”

“Just tea for me, thanks,” Sherlock calls back. 

John walks into the living room. “No, there’s a head in the fridge.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, the picture of calm.

“A bloody head,” John repeats.

“Well where else was I supposed to put it?” Sherlock asks. “You don’t mind do you?” John stares at him, his hands thrown out despairingly before turning back towards the fridge. “I got it from Bart’s morgue.” John buries his head in one hand. “I see you’ve written up the taxi driver case.

John throws one more glance at the fridge before accepting Sherlock’s change of subject. There’s no arguing with the man, honestly. “Uh, yes.”

“’A Study in Pink’. Nice,” Sherlock says and John can’t really tell if he’s being serious or sarcastic.

“Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone - there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?” 

Sherlock picks up a magazine and refuses to meet John’s eyes. “Erm, no.”

“Why not?” John asks. “I thought you’d be flattered.”

Sherlock lowers the magazine to shoot a scathing glare at John. “Flattered?” he raises his index finger and quotes a section from the blog, “Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds. What’s incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some thing.”

John sighs his defeat. It’s not their first argument, and it won’t be their last, but to John, every day feels just a bit more like their a couple. Shame, he thinks. 

₪ ₪ ₪

John’s heart is pounding, there’s a lump in his throat, he’s fighting tears. Sherlock has to be okay, there’s no way that he’s not okay. He rushes to Baker Street. 

“Sherlock. Sherlock!” he calls as he races up the stairs to their flat. 

Sherlock looks up at John as he enters the living room. “John.”

Mycroft’s there; trying to convince Sherlock to take a case. John’s more concerned about whether or not Sherlock’s been injured. Sherlock doesn’t let how pleased he is with John’s concern show. Mycroft gives John a creepy smile, his typical creepy smile, and leaves, dropping a case file into John’s hands on his way out. 

Sherlock decides to not comment on how obvious it is that John slept on the sofa, or how happy that makes him. John berates him a bit for lying, for having dragged him into the mess (he really hated having to deal with Mycroft in any situation), and bites his tongue when it comes precariously close to flirting just as Lestrade phones about an issue that’s come up.

There’s an envelope. They found it in a strong box in the basement of the apartment that blew up, directly across the street from 221 Baker Street. It’s addressed to Sherlock and John has to bite his tongue to keep from verbalizing how concerned this has him. They’ve run the initial tests, of course; done what they can to prevent anything from happening (you know, explosions and such). It still doesn’t sit well with John when Sherlock opens the envelope and a phone with a pink case slides out; an exact replica of the phone they used to track the cabbie from A Study in Pink, if John remembers correctly.

When Sherlock switches the phone on, a voice alert immediately sounds: You have one new message.

Sherlock glances at John just in time to see him tossing a look back. Neither smile, the entire situation is too serious. 

There’s no voice message. The only thing recorded is the unmistakable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal. Rather than the five short pips followed by a longer tone as is typical of the Greenwich pips, this message consists of four short pips and a long tone. Sherlock decides that pointing out this fact is unnecessary and would possibly lead to a ‘bit not good’ glare from John. 

A photograph loads on the phone. Sherlock stares at it for a moment, his mind racing as it so often does. It’s going to happen again, he knows this. The message is a warning.

“What’s gonna happen again?” John asks?

“Boom!”

₪ ₪ ₪

They’re given twelve hours to solve the first puzzle. It’s an adrenaline rush, but neither would ever admit that for the ‘bit not good’ factor involved. They shouldn’t get such a rush from racing the clock to save someone’s life. It’s while they’re in the lab, at the beginning of the search, that they meet Jim from IT. Molly introduces him as her boyfriend, an office romance. Sherlock proclaims he’s gay. It’s not really worth his time, he decides, to observe this uninteresting man an closer. There’s the game, and there’s John. Nothing else matters. He ignores Jim’s number and turns back to the trainers.

They belonged to Carl Powers. Sherlock isn’t quite sure what to make of this revelation. He’s finally going to get the chance to solve the first murder he’d come across in his teen years, the one the police had ignored him when he’d pointed out the boys missing shoes; but, John would call it a bit not good that he’s focusing on proving himself right rather than concerning himself with the crying woman on the phone with a bomb strapped to her. 

Sherlock pauses, takes a slow, deep breath. He’s focusing too much of himself on John and his reactions to how Sherlock acts. Focus on the case; focus on the game.

Sherlock sends John to work on the case Mycroft had brought them. Distance would allow him to focus on the case. There’s five hours left to figure it out.

John goes to see Mycroft, he wears a suit and tie. He can’t hide the fact that he’s nervous, Mycroft has that affect on people. It’s an awkward conversation, for John that is. Mycroft is perfectly comfortable with allowing John to dig his own grave, though he’d never allow anything to happen to his baby brother’s only friend. 

“Um,” John stutters out, “I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man.”

“Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross – er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies…” Mycroft pauses for a moment, glances at John. “Last seen by his fiancée at ten thirty yesterday evening.”

Mycroft’s grimace is a telling sign. John has to bite his cheek to keep from snickering when he realizes that Sherlock was right about Mycroft having a root canal done. Painful precedure, really. He shouldn’t find it amusing, especially considering their current conversation.

“Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?” Mycroft interrupts John. “That is the question - the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How’s he getting on?”

“He-he’s fine,” John stutters a response. “Yes. Oh, and-and it is going… very well. It’s, um, you know - he’s completely focused on it.”

They both know he’s lying. 

Sherlock solves it with three hours to go. Clostridium botulinum; it was mixed in with his eczema medication. Carl Powers was poisoned. Sherlock moves to the computer, types the answer into his website.

FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).  
Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.

The pink phone rings. The woman reads off the final message.

“Well done, you. Come and get me.”

₪ ₪ ₪

The next puzzle must be solved in eight hours. It’s a case of life insurance fraud. Sherlock is not impressed; John appreciates that he solved the puzzle so quickly, then again, John always seems to be impressed by Sherlock whether he wants to be or not. Once again, Sherlock puts the answer up on his website.

Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia.

The third puzzle proves Sherlock’s lack of knowledge when it comes to current events. He has no clue who the woman in the picture is; John feels rather useful with this bit. It’s a rush to save the blind woman; solve the case of a houseboy that had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle. Revenge. Dull. Sherlock solves the case with an hour to spare. John is not happy when he discovers that Sherlock could have solved it from nigh on the beginning. He’s never wanted to punch Sherlock more.

Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.

The woman makes a mistake. She starts describing his voice. The explosion rips through several floors; twelve people are killed. The news calls it a gas leak; Sherlock, John and Lestrade know the truth. 

The next pip comes in the midst of a bit of a domestic. John’s finally acknowledged how he feels about Sherlock, but he’s still refusing to admit it to anyone but himself. He’s pretty sure Sherlock’s deduced it by now, anyway. 

“Vie of the Thames. South Bank - somewhere between Southwark Bridge and Waterloo,” Sherlock says. “You check the papers. I’ll look online.”

Fine, John thinks. Just fine. Need a bit of a cool down, actually. 

There’s nothing on either. Sherlock finally caves and makes a call. “It’s me. Have you found anything on the South Bank between Waterloo Bridge and Southwark Bridge? “

John’s hasn’t been so scared of loosing Sherlock since that first night. This man, this Golem, very well may succeed where so many others have failed. John tries to get a shot off, but they scuffle so much and it’s so dark and the lights are flashing so erratically that he can’t be sure he’d hit the giant of a man rather than the man he allowed into his heart when he swore he’d never allow another.

“The Van Buren Supernova!” Sherlock shouts and the boy stops counting. That was close, that was too close.

₪ ₪ ₪

They finally make a bit of headway on Mycroft’s case. It’s easy to solve, for Sherlock. Andrew West was killed by his prospective brother-in-law; over a flash drive that he plans to use to get himself out of debt with the wrong sorts of people. 

John had planned to go to Sarah’s; a chance to get away from that infuriatingly brilliant and beautiful man. It doesn’t quite turn out the way he’d intended. The smell of chlorine is what wakes him. There’s a voice in his ear telling him what to say. Sherlock’s face, the look of absolute betrayal, is what pushes him over the edge. He finally shows his hand.

“Sherlock, run!” he yells at the man. 

This makes Jim laugh. Jim Moriarty, James Moriarty; one in the same. “You’ve rather shown your hand there, Dr. Watson.”

“D’you know what happens if you don’t leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?” he asks a bit later. “If you don’t stop prying, I’ll burn you. I’ll burn the heart out of you,” he glances at John with the last part and Sherlock’s breath catches. 

“I have been reliably informed that I don’t have one,” he tries, but he knows it useless. It’s obvious to anyone who cares enough to pay attention. 

The door closes behind Jim and Sherlock is at John’s side in an instant. He removes the semtex vest and slides it across the floor away from them. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah-yeah,” John stutters out. “I’m fine.

Sherlock races out the door after Moriarty. John leans against the edge of one of the changing cubicles. Sherlock comes back in, starts to pace up and down near John. 

“Are you okay?” John asks

“Me?” Sherlock sounds as though he’s only half paying attention. “Yeah. I’m fine. I’m fine. Fine.” He turns and stares at John, everything clicking into place. His eyes go wide and he’s breathless as he says, “that, er… thing that you, er, that you did; that, um…” he pauses, clears his throat, “you offered to do. That was, um… good.”

Moriarty reappears. “Sorry, boys. I’m sooooo changeable,” he drags out the ‘o’. “It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness. You can’t be allowed to continue. You just can’t. I would try to convince you, but…” he laughs, his voice becoming sing-song, “everything I have to say has already crossed your mind.”

“Probably my answer has crossed yours,” Sherlock says, pistol pointed Moriarty. He slowly lowers the pistol until it’s aimed at the vest. 

There’s a phone call. It’s a testament to how much sanity John has lost when he has to fight the urge to laugh when The BeeGee’s Staying Alive echoes through the otherwise silent pool. He’s finally able to relax when Moriarty leaves. 

When they finally make it back to 221B Baker Street, John sits in his chair, too exhausted to even make himself a cup of tea. He breathes in deep and slow. A clink startles him and he looks up to see Sherlock places a cup of tea in front of him on the table. A slow smile spreads across his lips as he looks up at the younger man. 

Sherlock stares down at him, his face blank but his mind racing. If he’s read this right, there’s only one way to go from here. He leans forward, his breath hitching when John moves to the edge of his chair to bring them closer together. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss. They pull back a bit, look at each other; both studying the others’ face for a moment before they move back in, their lips connecting with a bit more force.

At least out loud, John thinks, I won’t say I’ve gone and fallen for the git.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't think I'm too happy with this entire fic. I'm very likely to re-write the entire thing at some point in time.


End file.
